


Fell Like Stones from the Summit

by leinthalexandra



Series: Children of Erebor [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Durin Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Smaug, Siblings, loss of a parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-06 04:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leinthalexandra/pseuds/leinthalexandra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dís had never encountered orcs before, only seen them from a distance as the remnants of their army slaughtered what few dared to come close to their camps." An orc-raid hits the refugees of Erebor--and the royal line of Durin--far too close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fell Like Stones from the Summit

Sometimes Dís would wake herself with the sound of her own screams. She would sit up, clutching at the front of her nightshirt—one of her brothers’ old tunics, in fact—sweat breaking out across her forehead, tears streaming down her cheeks. Every night the same dream came again and again, with variations on the details but never the entire dream itself.

Over and over again Dís watched as Smaug descended upon the mountain; over and over again she was forced to remember the smoking ruins of Erebor, of her home. Over and over again she looked on in helpless horror as her mind developed new and terrible ways for them to die. Her brothers, her parents, her grandparents, her friends, all of them she saw devoured or consumed by flames as the wyrm made for Thrór’s treasure room. Their names were ever on her tongue, and she would often slip out of her own bedroll to find her brothers as they rested nearby, wiggling in between Thorin and Frerin, feeling safe enough to fall asleep in moments. The three of them would wake in a tangle of limbs under the fur blankets that kept them all warm, under the streaks of pale lavenders and pinks of the morning sky.

Dís’ eyes were dry, though, when she greeted the dawn. Never would she let her father see the weakness in her heart. Much as Thráin may have meant well, he was simply not equipped to deal with such a troublesome girl-child or a far too rambunctious dwarrow-lass, as she’d often heard the courtiers refer to her. The words themselves hadn't stung as much as it had seeing her father’s gaze turn hard when he looked on her, as though she were a disappointment. Thrain was as hard to reach as the metals buried deep within the rock; though a miner might know where it’s hidden, try as they might, their picks and hammers will never breach through the stone.

Girl-children were seen as a blessing from Mahal, a sign of prosperity and good fortune. But Thráin merely looked at her as though he wished she were not such…well.

What he wished of her, Dís would never know.

Her mother, on the other hand, had always done her best to shield her daughter from everything that might cause Dís harm. Well-intentioned as her mother might have been, it didn’t stop resentment from growing in Dís’ heart every time Freyja insisted that she stay home. Dís remembered how her mother had gone pale when she learned that Thorin and Frerin had helped Dís sneak away to Dale when they were all three of them young and foolhardy. Nor had Freyja stood up to her husband, at least not often, trying instead to persuade and plead with him, but rarely did she ever confront him. Dís couldn't help the hot bursts of anger that bloomed in her chest whenever she saw her mother back down, hated how she gave in so easily.

Sometimes, though, Dís noticed how Freyja had a different kind of strength about her; how she could say so many things with a single glance, how she could force Thrain to back down when his temper nearly had the best of him. She saw how her mother had done her best to comfort the other survivors that first night after the dragon had come. Where Dís was stubborn, fiery, quick-tempered, Freyja was like the rock at the mountain’s summit, easily dislodged by a quake but dangerous on its way down nonetheless.

Thorin and Frerin tried to keep her safe from the dangers of the road and the wild, but it didn't work for long. There were too many things that they couldn't hide her from, and Dís did not take kindly to their overprotective ways. She refused to be treated as a child--it had always been the three of them, together, taking care of each other. After Erebor had been lost they’d clung even more tightly, holding on and never letting go. They needed her, as much as she needed them.

But one night it all changed. Dís had never encountered orcs before, only seen them from a distance as the remnants of their army slaughtered what few dared to come close to their camps. But this time no one had heard them coming; they’d approached the camp in the silence, under the cover of darkness. She’d only woken when the screams started echoing through the night.

Dís sat up and threw away her blankets as she saw the disgusting creatures slashing and hacking with their crude weapons at anyone in their paths. She screamed for Thorin and Frerin, for her mother and father, and she ran as hard and fast as she’d done when the dragon came. The blood-chilling howls of wargs were not far off, either, and Dís was gripped with a fear so tight around her that she truly thought her heart would stop in her chest.

And then she felt a pair of strong arms around her; she struggled for a brief instant before she threw her head back to see Thorin’s face looking down at her. Dís screamed out a sob as she flung her arms around his neck and clung to him as tightly as she could manage. “Dís, you need to hide!” Thorin said, but she shook her head fiercely.

“No! I’m staying with you!” said Dís. She would fight--she could fight.

He didn't have time to answer. Frerin was right on Thorin’s heels, his sword drawn—only a blunted practice sword, he had been only a month and then some from the time he would come of age and receive a true sword—and Dís wanted to extend her hand and pull both of her brothers to safety.

“Frerin! Look out! Behind you!” she shouted, and pointed to the wargs that gave them chase, closing the distance far too quickly. But she could see that it wasn’t enough, that Frerin wouldn’t be able to hold them all off for long. So Dís did the only thing she could think to do: she grabbed the bow from where Thorin kept it on his back and pulled an arrow from his thin quiver. Quick as she was able, Dís readied the arrow and took aim at the warg in front of the pack, then let it loose and watched as it hit dead-on between its eyes. She made as though to shoot again, but then Thorin put a hand to the scabbard on his belt and Dís threw herself to the ground.

She thought she heard a shout, someone calling her name, but she rolled several times and then clambered to her feet, the bow and two arrows still clutched in her grip. A huge orc with scars that twisted half of his face lunged for her, but Dís screamed and managed to dodge his blade at the last moment. She ducked her head to avoid another blow, then sent an arrow straight into the orc’s eye-socket. As it shrieked and flailed its arms around wildly, Dís kicked at the backs of its knees as hard as she could; it released its grip on the sword, and she dived for it, swinging it around by the handle once before raising it above her head. When she brought it down across the orc’s neck, her boots and her trousers were spattered with black blood.

Staring down at the dead orc, Dís tried to steady her quick, shallow breaths, her lungs burning, her legs and arms all screaming for air. But there was no time, and she heard the screams grow louder once again behind her; she lifted the stolen sword and turned on her heel to rush back into the fray. Dís charged forward, swinging the sword wildly, doing her best to hit anything within her range, small as it might have been. All around her she saw dwarrow-women and men alike taking up arms to defend those who couldn't fight for themselves.

When she stumbled over something--a weapon, a limb, she couldn't see--Frerin caught her with an arm around her waist, but the two of them fell to the ground when a giant warg barreled towards them and slammed its front paws into Frerin’s back. He gave a shout of pain and tried to keep from falling on top of Dís, instead shifting his weight to where his body fell on his right arm. Dís heard the sickening crack of bones breaking as Frerin’s face contorted with pain.

She scrambled to his side and grabbed his sword before she stood up, swinging the blade this way and that to keep the warg at bay. She screamed when it lunged forward and bit her on the arm before she stabbed at it with the blade in her other hand. Suddenly a battle axe caught the warg in its side and it howled in pain as it toppled over, its orc rider caught beneath its bulk. When Dís looked up she saw her mother standing there, pulling her weapon out of the warg’s flesh to swipe at another one that came too close to her children.

Freyja wielded her axe with a ferocity that Dís had never seen in her before as she threw herself into the fray. Frerin pushed up onto his unbroken elbow and forced himself to stand as he grabbed his sword off the ground. He nearly stumbled back again, but then Thorin was there, bracing him with an arm against Frerin’s shoulders before stabbing his sword into an orc’s throat that dared come to close. Nearby, Dís could see her father’s own double-headed axe as he brought it down on the neck of a huge warg, hacking again and again until the thing’s head rolled away from its body.

Though she still held fast to the orc sword she’d taken earlier, Dís had her bow still slung over her shoulder but her small twin knives were hidden in her bedroll, too far away from where she stood. She almost missed the blade swinging down towards her, slicing through the air only to be stopped by the handle of an axe. There was a harsh look in Freyja’s eyes as she pulled back before cleaving the orc’s head clean off its neck. Dís barely had time to parry another orc’s attack aimed at her mother, but the clash of steel upon steel gave her the half moment she needed to kick out and send the orc sprawling to the ground. She ran forward only several steps before digging her feet in and stabbing her sword down to pierce its heart, killing it instantly.

Then she heard the scream, a far too familiar voice that froze her blood. Dís whipped around, and the instant she did she dropped her sword, every part of her going limp. The air in her lungs felt punched out of her as she saw her mother, her axe dragging the ground, an orkish sword pierced clean through her stomach. Red, bright red blood dripped from the blade as the orc pulled it out, a twisted, ugly smile on its face as Freyja dropped to her knees. Her free hand went to her stomach, blood staining her clothes as it spread quickly from the wound.

Dís’ mind went blank, saw nothing but her mother and the foul thing that stood above her; everything else had gone white and the next she knew, the orc was flat on the ground, her hands around its throat. It thrashed and struggled against her grip but she smashed her fist into its face, breaking its nose. She gripped its neck tightly and began slamming its head against the ground over and over again. It was only when two pairs of hands took her by the arms and began to drag her away did she stop, and even then Dís struggled against them.

“Dís!” she heard someone say. “Dís, stop! It’s dead! They’re all dead!”

Still she fought, tears burning her eyes, but it wasn't long before Dís stopped, falling into her brothers’ arms as she stared at her mother’s body, unmoving and covered in blood in the same place she’d fallen. Like the stones from the summit of the mountain, Dís thought, dangerous on their way down, but never again to reach the top. A sob tore itself from her throat, then another, until she could barely breathe through them. There was a gentle hand on her back, and Frerin rested his forehead against her shoulder and held her hand tightly in his own. Thorin was silent but Dís could hear Frerin’s quiet sobs; when she looked up, though, there were unshed tears in Thorin’s eyes.“I...” Dís said, choking on whatever words she might have said. She took deep, shuddering breaths, and she could feel her brothers’ clasped hands resting against her thigh.

Then Thráin appeared, falling to his knees beside his wife; he didn't move for a long, long moment, then gently lifted her body and held her close to him. Dís could barely hear him saying the words of mourning, over and over, his voice muffled as he buried his face in her long, golden hair. Soon she heard Frerin’s broken voice chanting under his breath. Thorin joined him, though he spoke in barely a whisper. Dís was the last of them but her voice rang out the loudest, the grief in her heart tearing her asunder.  _Oh, blessed Mahal_ , she thought,  _let her spirit go quickly to your side_.

 _Mahal didn't create us to feel things lightly. When we love, when we mourn, when we rage, when we're joyous, it's with all we can give and then some_. Dís knew that, as surely as she knew the secret name her parents had given her as a child. Her father’s voice rose louder, his words faded into nothing but sounds of grief. The light of the sunrise began to crest in the east. Blood stained their clothes; black blood of slaughtered orcs, their own red blood from wounds which had gone unnoticed in the frenzy of battle. Dís could feel the sting and bite of cuts and bruises all over her body and she wanted nothing more than to collapse into the ground, let the earth swallow her up the same way her mother’s body would soon be returned to the rock and stone.

She let her tears drip down her cheeks, down to the corners of her mouth, mixing with the saliva that coated her lips and fell down her chin. Dís let out a scream, falling forward to rest her head against the grass, her body shaking, her hands trembling. There was no reason here to hold back her grief. It didn’t matter now if her father saw her tears.

 


End file.
